


All the Time in the World

by oswhine



Category: Doctor Who
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-05
Updated: 2015-10-12
Packaged: 2018-04-24 21:04:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,291
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4935301
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oswhine/pseuds/oswhine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>BASED ON THE FEVER BY MEGAN ABBOTT - Clara and the Doctor investigate some strange occurrences at a 1950s high school.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Less flowery and descriptive than my usual stuff - watching Sabrina the Teenage Witch has really helped me improve my snappy dialogue.

“Tell me why I have to wear this again,” Clara asked, gesturing to the dress with the tightly nipped waist and matching gloves she was wearing. Her hair was pulled into a flippy ponytail, her eyeliner winged, her cheeks pink.

“You can’t walk around advertising a band that hasn’t even formed yet,” the Doctor replied, referencing the Coldplay t-shirt Clara had walked into the TARDIS wearing. “Besides, I’ve met Coldplay - they were terribly stuck-up.”

“Why are we even in the 1950s?” Clara asked, sliding around the console to stand beside the Doctor, the lights casting firework glows on her face. “Time of all the worst isms - sexism, racism, um - homophobia-ism?”

The Doctor gave her a look as if to say “Don’t doubt me,” but Clara had learned by now to doubt everything he said and everything that happened when they were together. She’d learned that through an ocean of tears and an aching heart, from the moon to the North Pole.

“There’s been a few - peculiarities - involving teenage girls at an American high school. And it’s not just unidentified STDs,” he added, glancing at Clara. “So!” He clapped his hands and then interrupted himself: “I’m never doing that again, I’m not a football coach, I’ve done that already. Well, you know the, ah, drill, you’re the new English teacher, and I’m the new principal.”

“Principal? I thought you were the custodian,” Clara said teasingly as they walked out of the TARDIS and into a high school corridor, walls scaled with battered lockers.

“I’ve worked my way up the job ladder.”

“Shouldn’t a principal be wearing a suit? What happened to ‘deep cover’? And why do I have to dress up and you don’t?”

“You said it yourself, Clara - it’s the 1950s, it’s sexist. Toodle-oo,” he wiggled his fingers and her and walked away down the hall. She watched him go, as he tucked his hands in his pockets and started whistling ‘Hound Dog’.

A finger tapping on her shoulder made her jump.

“You must be the new English teacher,” said a man with dark hair and melancholy Edgar Allan Poe eyes. His gaze flickered up and down Clara’s new dress. “Miss Oswald?”

“Ms,” she snapped, again cursing the sexist 1950s where all female teachers had to be spinsters, and when she looked back up the hallway, the Doctor was gone.

The man turned out to be the vice principal, Mr Kedzierski. As he walked her to her new classroom, Clara ventured, “I’ve heard some rumours about” - she remembered the Doctor’s word - “ _Peculiarities_ concerning the teenage girls at this school.”

Mr Kedzierski frowned. “Exactly the right word, Ms Oswald - it’s all just rumour. Gossip. Yes, a few girls fainted” - he paused as if he were about to add more, but stopped himself - “But it’s nothing abnormal. You know how silly girls can be. Of course - you were one. I blame rock ‘n roll.” He stopped, tugging at his suit cuffs. “Well, here’s your new domain, Ms Oswald. I hope you don’t succumb to your inner girlish tendencies while on the job.” And with that, he strode off.

Clara did not like Mr Kedzierski.

~

And when she entered the classroom, she felt he had downplayed the incidents a lot. There was a nervous tension in the air so strong it made the hairs on her arms float up. The students were huddled together in clumps, pinching their fingers nervously, the girls twisting locks of hair round and round their fingers, all talking in hushed voices. Clara knew kids, and this behavior was not natural. They should be spread out, sprawled on top of desks, talking in loud voices to their friends across the room, finishing the chapter of the novel they’d been assigned at the last minute, the girls gossiping about the TV show they watched together but apart the night before.

Clara cleared her throat to get their attention. They all stumbled to their seats. “Hi, I’m your new English teacher, my name is - “

“I knew it!” Cried one of the boys in a voice that rang out across the classroom.

“Excuse me?” Clara said, crossing her arms.

“Our old English teacher was really superstitious,” said a soft-spoken girl in the front row, her blonde hair pulled back so tightly the veins on her temples throbbed, as if that explained everything.

“So, she was superstitious,” Clara said, using her tone to invite them in.

“She thought it was infectious or something,” another boy piped up.

“No, she thought the school had bad energy,” someone else said.

“Hold on - what is ‘it’?” Clara asked.

“You don’t _know_?” A girl asked, the damp tip of her ponytail dropping from her mouth.

“No, I haven’t been in town very long,” Clara said wryly. “Does someone want to explain to me what’s going on? You’ll get extra credit.”

The students looked around at each other uneasily.

“Really?” Clara said. “No one wants extra credit?”

She felt the students’ unease spreading to her too, an uncomfortable tug in her stomach. Still no one spoke up. The room was silent except for the creaking of desks as the students shifted in their seats.

“Well, alright then. On with the lesson. I’m Ms Oswald - “

Disappointment settled on her shoulders. They wouldn’t tell her anything now. She’d learned nothing, but she’d gained a curiosity that squirmed inside her and made her fiddle with the chalk in her hands as she told the class about Emily Dickinson, so that by the time the bell had rung her hands were powdered white. She was wiping them off with a rag when a voice behind her said;

“Um, Ms Oswald?”

Clara turned. It was the soft-spoken girl who’d sat at the front of the class. She recalled from the attendance list that the girl’s name was Betty Brown.

“Yes, Betty?” She asked, matching the girl’s quiet, gentle tone.

“About a week ago a girl - Patricia Johnson - fell out of her chair in biology and started twitching on the floor. Like a beetle, you know, when you flip it on its back. It was really scary. Her eyes rolled back in her head so all you could see was the white parts. And then two days later it happened to another girl - Susan Wilson. I wasn’t there that time though. And now we’re all waiting for it to happen again. We’re all wondering who’s next, will it be me?” Betty finished breathlessly, clutching her books to her chest.

“Thank you for telling me, Betty. That must have been very frightening. Where are the girls now? Where are Patricia and Susan?”

“At the hospital. Do I still get extra credit?”

~

On her break Clara found the Doctor in the teacher’s lounge, staring into a styrofoam cup of coffee as though contemplating his existence.

“How can anyone drink this stuff? It’s so bitter. It tastes like Zygon milk.”

“Never mind that. And I don’t even want to know how you know what Zygon milk tastes like.” Clara told him what Betty had shared with her.

“Interesting. I didn’t find out much - my secretary kept brewing me this awful stuff” - he swilled his coffee around - “Just the girl’s full names and medical histories and all the information in their files. Oh yes, and I did some scans with my sonic screwdriver and ruled out 319 possibilities.”

“Oh yeah, that’s not much at all.”

“Was that sarcasm? I don’t like sarcasm - saying one thing and meaning another? What’s the point of that? Can’t you just say what you mean?”

“Remember when saying what you really meant nearly got you a life sentence in Alcatraz before I rescued you? Because I do.”

“Alright, let’s go to the hospital.” The Doctor made a hasty turn away from Clara and dumped his coffee in the trash can.

She hurried after him, calling: “You almost shared a cell with Al Capone!”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clara and the Doctor begin to get to the bottom of the girls' mysterious illness...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> is there really a National Health Service? I have no idea. it just sounded good. also: it's always a good time to reference previous regenerations.

The Doctor and Clara stood in front of the check-in desk, the former drumming his fingers on its surface.

“Did you know there’s a hospital run by cats?” He asked Clara.

She looked up at him. “Yes, I’ve been up and down your timestream, remember? And you’ve also visited a hospital on the moon.”  

“Oh, right. How am I supposed to sound experienced and mysterious if you know everything about me?”

“The future’s still mysterious,” Clara said, grinning, her dimples winking up at him.

Just then the receptionist returned, straightening her violet-tinted blouse. There were matching violet circles underneath her eyes.

“How may I help you?” She asked in a harried tone.

The Doctor presented his psychic paper.

“The National Health Service? I didn’t know women worked for the National Health Service,” the receptionist said, unable to hold her words back.

“I hate the 1950s,” Clara muttered under her breath.

“Trust me, you would hate the 1550s even more. No colour TV, not to mention indoor plumbing.” He tucked the psychic paper back into his coat, his all access pass to the universe.

They visited Patricia Johnson - the first girl - first. Her bed was surrounded by a watercolour haze of flowers, but it was empty except for the girl lying, fast asleep, in the bed. She looked so small, as if she were a child, not a teenage girl. Her mouth was open slightly so that they could see her upper teeth, straight and white, like in a dental commercial. But at the same time there was something sinister about her appearance, like the wolf in the fairytale of Little Red Riding Hood, Clara thought, _all the better to eat you with_. Her arms were splotched with purple and yellow bruises, her hair dampened with sweat. Clara impulsively reached out and took the girl’s limp hand.

“Doctor, what’s happened to her?” She asked.

The Doctor began scanning the unconscious girl with his sonic screwdriver. “Let’s go check on the other girl,” he said abruptly.

“Did you find anything out?” Clara asked. The Doctor didn’t reply. “I hate it when you do this! We’re supposed to be friends, equals! I wish you wouldn’t keep things from me just for dramatic effect!”

“Calm down, Clara, I’m just not entirely sure yet.”

“But you know more than I do!”

“Clara, you wouldn’t want me to tell you everything. Let’s go.”

~

Susan Wilson's mother was sitting beside her daughter’s bed, looking into her face, when they entered the hospital room. She didn’t even look up at the sound of their footsteps.

The Doctor cleared his throat. “Ah, excuse me. We’re from the - what did I say earlier, Clara?”

“We’re the National Health Service, and we would like to examine your daughter, if that’s alright.”

The Doctor coughed. “Yes, I’m 100% positive we know more than these mid-twentieth century American doctors, we’ll find the problem with your daughter in no time.”

“And you’ll be able to cure her?” Mrs Wilson looked up hopefully, clutching at her skirt.

“Yes, I’m sure we will. If you would just leave us alone with her for a moment...”

The woman hurried eagerly from the room. When she had gone, Clara told the Doctor: “You can’t just make promises like that. What if you can’t help the girls?”

He sighed. “What’s my name, Clara? The name everyone calls me?”

“The Doctor, but - “

“Exactly. Now let me do my work.”

“But you chose that name for yourself! You’re not actually a real, medical doctor!” Clara burst out.

“That may be true, but I’m also a timelord, and, no offense, but we really do know a great deal more than you little humans. Now will you let me scan her?”

“Fine,” Clara said, standing back and crossing her arms.

Susan looked much the same as Patricia. Her arms were also mottled with bruises, and drops of sweat shone on her brow like jewels on a diamond tiara.

“Aha!” The Doctor exclaimed. “Got it!”

“What? What did you get?” Clara unknotted her arms and rushed over to him.

“The signal!”

“Signal?” Clara asked, confused.

“These girls aren’t contagious, this isn’t some bug or disease. This was done to them!”

“Done to them? Doctor!” He was already running out of the room. “How? And why?”

“That’s why we have to follow the signal!” He called back to her at the same time as a nurse exclaimed; “No running in the halls!” But it was too late. Clara and the Doctor were already running together.

~

The TARDIS took them an abandoned house on the other side of town, as dark and creaky as a haunted house. Trees weeped in front of it and the scraggly grass brushed against their knees. The windows were cracked or boarded up, and the whole place had the smell of dampness and decay.

“What exactly are we expecting to find here?” Clara asked, whispering because it felt right in a place like this.

“What do you think? A ghost,” the Doctor said, and pushed past her and up the stairs.

“Doctor!” She cried, frustrated. “That doesn’t help!”

He looked back at her, putting his finger to his lips. “Come on!” He hissed. The door swung open at the slightest touch of his fingers, and they stepped through it to find themselves not in a shadowy hall, but a clinical laboratory, the smell of cleaning products replacing the rotting smell.

“What is this place? Is this timelord technology? Bigger on the inside, disguised on the outside?”

“No, it’s not good enough to be timelord tech. It’s just a building wearing a costume. Now, we have to find our perpetrator without them finding us first.”

They walked along a corridor, the walls and tiled floor blinding white, their footsteps echoing. They turned a corner and came face-to-face with  a bespeckled man in a lab coat.

“Now, don’t you know this house is haunted?” He asked mildly.

“We only just moved here,” the Doctor said, gesturing to himself and Clara. “We were actually hoping to find you, Dr?”

“Smith,” the man said, stretching his welcoming smile wider. “You’re interested in my work?”

“Very.” The Doctor whipped out his psychic paper and the man examined it and nodded.

“Why don’t you explain to us what your company’s about, Dr Smith?” The Doctor asked after he’d been given his psychic paper back.

Dr Smith started strolling down the corridor. “Well, here at Smith Industries, we’ve pioneered the most effective anti-aging cream in the galaxy.” The Doctor and Clara followed him as he rambled on, listing various chemicals. He was about to tell them about the peanut-free facility the cream was made in, when the Doctor interrupted him:

“Interesting that all of those chemicals are highly prominent in teenage girls,” he said lightly.

“Well, you know hormones,” Dr Smith said in an offhand way, giving a little chuckle. “Would you like a sample of our product? It’s never too early - “ his eyes took in Clara’s round, glowing, face - “Or late” - now his eyes flickered over the wrinkles cobwebbing the Doctor’s skin - “To start using it.”

Clara was about to refuse obstinately when the Doctor cut in - “We’d love some.”

Dr Smith produced a small glass jar from inside his lab coat and handed it the Doctor. Then he paused, studying them. “You’re new in town, did you say?”

“I did, and now we have to go finish unpacking. Goodbye.” The Doctor jostled Clara’s arm urgently and they started walking. At the end of the hallway she looked behind her to see the doctor still watching them curiously.

“What was all that about?” She asked when they were safely inside the TARDIS away from walls with ears and floorboards with eyes.

“I took the cream to do tests, though I doubt that will really be necessary. Feel free to use it, if you don’t mind exploiting helpless, oppressed teenage girls, you do need some.”

“I do not!” Clara said indignantly. “Anyway, I was more wondering about that rushed exit.”

“What do you think the good doctor would do if he found out we were time travellers? We’re a thousand times more beneficial for the skin than a few junk food fed, pimply teenagers. We move throughout time, spanning thousands of years. It would make him a trillionaire; selling things to help fix people’s insecurities is always the most profitable business.”

“How are we going to stop him?”

“Well - I’ll think of something. I always do. Now, you’d better get back to your class - your break’s almost over.”

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clara does some detective work.

Frustrated and restless, Clara wished that home videos could have been invented two decades early. She could just sit these kids in front of Alfred Hitchcock’s _Rebecca_ and sit at her desk, tapping her foot and wondering what the Doctor was up to, if he wasn’t drinking his secretary’s coffee. As it was, she had to stand at the front of the class and talk about literary devices for both the students’ sake and her own. But her mind was as far away from the subject as possible, and sometimes a student had to say, “Ms Oswald?” in an unsure way to bring her back to the present. They probably all thought she was a crazy old spinster.

Clara was as glad as her students were when the bell finally rung. She rushed to the staff room, running past Mr Kedzierski and sending the papers in his hands flying up into the air like stark white butterflies, who called out, “Ms Oswald!”, which she ignored, but when she got there, it was empty except for the moody biology teacher with the glasses on a chain, sitting pensively over a mug of sugary tea.

She went back to the spot where they’d arrived that morning, but the TARDIS and the Doctor were nowhere to be seen. She folded her arms and gazed at the spot, willing it there. But nothing happened. Magic wasn’t real, just extraordinary things.

“Ms Oswald!” It was Mr Kedzierski again. Clara ducked into the girl’s bathroom to escape him and found the quiet girl from her first class, Betty Brown, standing in front of the pink-tiled wall, a small blue pill pinched in the fingers of one hand, a glass bottle of Coca-Cola in the other.

“Betty?”

Betty jumped and twirled around, her skirt floating up around her. “Ms Oswald!”

“What’s that?” Clara asked, walking towards the girl.

Betty impulsively put both hands behind her back. “Nothing,” she said quickly.

“Betty,” Clara said in her best stern teacher voice, “I know you have something, I saw it in your hand.

“Oh! Yes,” Betty flushed and brought out the soda bottle. Clara looked pointedly at her, eyebrow raised.

She gave in. “Alright, it’s a diet pill. I got it from Mildred Clark. All the girls are trying them. They’re so effective. I lost five pounds in a day!”

Clara frowned. “Betty, that’s not natural. And you’re perfectly beautiful the way you are. You don’t need to lose a single pound.”

“But the winter formal’s coming up, and I want a date this year!”

“Why don’t you just ask someone yourself?”

Betty gasped and looked scandalized. “I couldn’t!”

Clara rolled her eyes. _The sexism showing through again_. “Why did Mildred get those pills?”

“I don’t know.”

“Do you know where Mildred is?”

“She’s usually sitting up in the bleachers, watching the guys practice football. You won’t tell my parents about this, will you?” She bit her lip.

“As long as you stop taking those pills.” Clara held out her hand and Betty obediently dropped the blue tablet into her palm. Instead of throwing it away, Clara pocketed it. She needed to find Mildred.

~

A girl was sitting high up in the bleachers, on the top row, her brown hair loose and blowing in the wind, fanning out around her. Every so often a pink bubble bloomed from her lips.

Clara climbed up and sat beside her. “Are you Mildred Clark?”

“Millie, please. Have you ever heard of a more grandmother-y sounding name than Mildred?” She snapped her gum.

“Ethel?” Clara suggested.

“Good point.” Millie’s eyes were focused on the blue and yellow players running up and down the field, calling out to each other in faint voices. “Anyway, what do you want, lady?”

“Where did you get those diet pills from?”

Millie eyed Clara for a moment before looking back at the field. “Your husband a cop or something?”

“Why couldn’t I be a cop?” Clara asked hotly.

“A woman cop? Get real.” She blew a bubble and let it burst in Clara’s face.

“Did you sell any to Patricia Johnson and Susan Wilson?”

“Lady, I sold them to almost all the girls in the whole school, so yeah, I sold some to them. They were actually some of the first few - so eager to lose a few pounds they volunteered to be my first subjects - whoops, I meant _customers_.” She smirked and swept a strand of hair out of her face.

“Where did you get the pills?”

“Some doctor guy. Said they were going to be the next big thing, he just needed test subjects. He assured me they were safe; he just needed to go the official way about it. And I needed some cash, so I said okay.”

“And you didn’t tell any of the girls about this?”

“They’re so desperate they wouldn’t care.”

“What was the doctor’s name?”

“I don’t remember - something really ordinary, like Jones or Smith. Can you go now? You're distracting me.”

~

This time Clara did manage to find the Doctor, the TARDIS parked under an oak tree at the front of the school.

“I found out what Dr Smith is using to get the girls!” She burst out, proud of her detective work, and she told the Doctor what she’d discovered.

“Good work, Clara! Good to know you’re earning your keep.” He grinned at her and she glared back. “Have you ever watched _Scooby-Doo_?”

It was such a strange leap that Clara stepped back a little, startled and worrying if he was trying harder to make his ‘madman in a box’ description as accurate as possible. “Yeah, I suppose so,” she said cautiously.

“Great! Well, I’m Fred, and I’ve put together an elaborate trap for our mad Doctor.”

“Talking in the third person again, are we?”

He usually would have frowned at her, but now he smiled, not helping ease her worries. “And you’re Scooby-Doo.”

“I’m what?! I’m the cartoon dog?! The _dog_?!”

“More than that,” the Doctor said, his smile growing wider, “You’re the bait!”

“Hold on, I did not agree to this.” Clara crossed her arms.

“Does Scooby want a Scooby snack?”

“Stop being so condescending; I’m not the one that watches _Scooby-Doo_ in their spare time. I thought old people were supposed to be mature.”

“How can you think that, knowing me? Anyways, your Scooby snack is this: you get to stop an evil doctor stealing innocent - at least in this sense - teenage girls’ souls, _plus_ I’m offering you a free vacation of your choice.”

“Don’t I get that all the time though?” Clara knew she would give in, because he was the Doctor. He was the most persuasive man in the universe and her best friend and she’d do anything for him after all they’d been through together. It was fun to play with him though, like he toyed with her.

“What, stopping an evil doctor?”

“Alright, I’ll do it. What’s the plan?”


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clara plays her part in the Doctor's plan, but feels like he's mistreating her. However, everything is eventually resolved into a happy ending.

_“Alright, I’ll do it. What’s the plan?”_

 

Half an hour later Clara had ‘infiltrated’ (the Doctor’s word) Dr Smith’s laboratory, a vortex manipulator (the most recognizable time-travel device in the universe, the Doctor said) strapped to her wrist, wearing a t-shirt that said _My grandma went to the war of 1812 and all she got me was this crappy t-shirt_. She felt absolutely ridiculous. She felt as if she were in a cartoon.

“Hello?” She called out. “Dr Smith? I’m back for more of that cream, I think it really made a difference. And you should see my friend - wow!” She paused, listening. But the building was silent as the grave. “Anyway, I’m back for a lifetime supply!”

Everything was still. She was about to call out for Dr Smith again when he appeared from around a corner, smiling benignly. She saw his eyes flash to her shirt and her wrist, and he licked his lips.

“It’s a pleasure to see you again, and always a pleasure to know my product has satisfied my customer. As a gift of my gratitude, would you like to try my newest product? It’s guaranteed to erase all facial impurities including dark circles, pores, and pimples,” he purred.

“Ah, no, I’m just - “

But Dr Smith cut her off. “I insist. It’s free.” He stepped towards her, opening a tub of cream. Clara was hesitant - the Doctor hadn’t told her what to do in case Dr Smith was threatening her with some facial cream.

He dabbed his fingertips in the product and reached out towards Clara’s cheek, the excess dripping off his gloves onto the floor. Clara glanced down, but it hadn’t seemed to melt the floor like acid or done anything sinister. But as soon as Dr Smith swiped his fingers across her skin, she felt dizzy, and before she was even aware of the sensation, her legs were buckling underneath her, and her eyelids were dragging her down, down into a warm, cushioned darkness…

~

She awoke strapped to a table that seemed like something out of one of the old Universal horror movies. She tried to move, but she was paralyzed. It was the most frightening feeling she’d ever experienced, even more so when she realized she couldn’t scream or cry out. She was trapped in nightmare where she could only move her eyes to watch the horrors play out around her. She wished the Doctor would come, sweep in and save her, her knight in a red-lined coat. But the room was still and silent apart from a faint buzzing that seemed to be inside her head. She told herself fiercely, as she always did in times like these when everything seemed helpless and tears tried to push themselves out of her eyes, when it seemed like the Doctor just thought she was just another ant crawling across planet Earth, that she would never blindly trust again.

Tears were threatening to run into her ears when the doctor came in. Not her Doctor, but Dr Smith, smiling that simple smile of his, the one that said “Have a nice day,” even when she was chained up in a torture chamber.

“Where’s your friend?” He asked softly, then seemed to remember she was voiceless, or sense that she would never give him up. “Never mind. You’re a young, beautiful, time traveller - there are lifetimes worth of anti-aging cream in you.”

Clara tried to struggle, but not even one finger twitched. The tears really did escape now, running down her cheeks. And she couldn’t wipe them away, couldn’t save herself. She felt as useless as the Doctor probably thought she was.

“Oh, poor dear,” Dr Smith said, still smiling. “Just think of all the people you’ll be helping.”

Her mind reached back to their conversation, his voice saying “Does Scooby want a Scooby snack?”, his smile like Dr Smith’s. Of course he thought she could only understand his plan in terms of a kid’s cartoon, of course she was his dog. Weak, owned, used, patted and told “good girl,” like it was all ok. It wasn't ok. She wasn’t his bitch, but she’d let him treat her like that because she wanted so much to prove to him that she was worth it, and now she was going to die.

Dr Smith had turned away from her and was fiddling with a tray of instruments. God, she was going to die in such a cliche way, too. It was just too much.

“Now, where did I put that syringe?” She heard Dr Smith muttering to himself. Her heart was beating like a panicked bird trying to escape the cage of her ribs. Then she heard another voice, a voice that filled her with so many contrasting emotions, say;

“Here you go.”

“Thanks,” Dr Smith said, and Clara caught the moment when he looked up sharply into the Doctor’s smiling face. “You!” He exclaimed. Then he seemed to recover himself. “Oh good, you’ve come to join your friend. This is even better than I’d hoped.”

“No.”

“Pardon me?” Clara could just see Dr Smith’s sickening smile even though his back was facing her. She tried to catch the Doctor’s eye but he wasn’t paying attention to her. Of course. She was just his dog, come when called, but I don’t need you otherwise.

“I said no, I didn’t come here to join my friend. I came here to unmask you.” He couldn’t help chuckling. Dr Smith’s shoulder’s tensed, confused. “I’m sorry, I couldn’t help myself. That was good, wasn’t it Clara? Get it, _Scooby-Doo_? They always unmask the villain at the end?”

She couldn’t say anything. And she wouldn’t have even if she could.

“Oh, right.” He unsheathed his sonic screwdriver from his coat pocket and aimed it toward her and suddenly she could move again, and her mouth didn’t feel as though it was stuffed with cotton. She stood up, wanting to get as far away from the table as possible.

“You’ve been very clever, Dr Smith,” the Doctor continued, “Hiding away on Earth because you knew your activities were illegal, because you knew there was a never ending stock of teenage girls here, beginning in the fifties, when teenagers were first properly recognized, shipping your product across the universe. You were planning to stay here as long as you lived, preying on young girls, using your own product to stay forever young while you rotted inside until the day you dropped dead, still looking middle-aged. I bet you were just tickled pink to meet us, weren’t you? Two time travellers. Now you would never have to stop work. You’re a clever but greedy man, so you could use our time energies to extend your lifetime, keep working indefinitely. But you’re not clever enough to know you couldn’t have used us for both your personal and profitable purposes. Hey, that was some good alliteration! Alaric Alexander Watts*, eat your heart out! Anyway, my point: no more. You realise if you keep draining these girls of their youth and beauty and energy, there won’t be any more teenage girls? No mothers, no daughters. I’m sick of greedy and clever men like you stealing people’s lives.”

There was silence. Clara watched from the corner. The Doctor was talking fast, peppering his speech with weak jokes, a sign of danger lurking beneath the surface. Sure enough, when Dr Smith didn’t reply, the Doctor tipped his table of instruments to the floor with a loud _crash_ and all his shining silver tools clattered on the ground.

“You understand me?” The Doctor asked, his threatening eyebrows drawing together. “No, I don’t think you do, because greedy men never learn.”

“No, no,” Dr Smith stammered, “I understand you perfectly.”

“No,” said the Doctor quietly, “You don’t.” His sonic screwdriver was still clenched in one hand, and he played with it, in a purposefully casual way, bringing it to his lips. “You know what’s happening right now, Dr Smith?” He asked. “I’m broadcasting to all the justice patrols in this segment of the universe, and,” he raised his voice, “We’ve got a V-996 down here.” The light died on his screwdriver and almost immediately the building began to shake. Clara braced herself against the walls, but the Doctor just stood there in front of Dr Smith, a satisfied smile on his face like that of a cat who has just eaten a mouse it has toyed with for an hour, until the other man suddenly flickered and vanish, and the building steadied. As soon as the ground stopped vibrating the Doctor hurried over to Clara.

“Clara! Are you ok?” He reached out for her hand but she snatched it away.

“No! I’m not ok with the fact an archetypal mad doctor nearly harvested my energies as if I was a crop swaying in a field, but I’m more not ok with the way you treat me!” She looked defiantly into his face, his eyes that had widened when she’d flinched away from him. “I will not be your dog, or your bait, any longer! I’ve accompanied you for the longest time as your servant, and I think I’ve proven myself enough to be your friend now! Your equal! Not just the person who keeps your place until you decide to sweep in and save the day with bravado.”

“Clara, you were instrumental to our plan! Without you, Dr Smith wouldn’t have been distracted, and I wouldn’t have been able to get in! We saved thousands of lives today, you should be proud!”

“But it wasn’t ‘our’ plan, was it? You came up with it, you kept all the details from me! You never tell me anything!”

“Well, I’m the best at making plans, like Fred is the best at making plans in _Scooby-Doo_. Everyone has their place in the gang, and everyone is equally important - “

“Oh, will you shut up about _Scooby-Doo_! I’m not a child!”

“You’re never too old to watch _Scooby-Doo_ ; I’m over two thousand years old and I still - “

“Just shut up! You’re not listening to me! You’re always too busy making up clever remarks. You never - “

“Clara,” he said gently, his face serious now, “I always listen to you. You’re not my servant; and you’re more important than just a friend to me. I’m sorry if you’ve felt I’ve mistreated you; I guess I’ve got a bit cocky after all this time. You know how stubborn they say old people are. From now on, I swear to you, I will share every grisly detail with you, and if you feel I don’t, or if I’m asking you to do something you’re not comfortable with, hit me. I’ll even get you your own special club. The stone age is very nice this time of year. Deal?”

She looked at him for a moment. “Deal. But only if it’s a very big club.”

He laughed. “Alright. You can get a club that’s bigger than you, if you want.” They started to walk out of the facility.

She punched him in the arm. “Hey! Was that a rude remark about my height?”

“I don’t know, was that a meaningful punch or an ‘I’m just playing around’ punch?”

“Maybe both, depends on what your meaning was.”

“Then it definitely wasn’t a remark about your height.”

“Ok, then it was just an ‘I’m playing around’ punch. Let’s go get my club.”

~

_Two Weeks Later_

The high school gym was decorated with brocades of streamers, and silver and frosty blue helium balloons bumped against the ceiling, a shimmering snowflake hanging down from each one above the heads of the heavily-hairsprayed dancers, the girls’ dresses blooming around them whenever they twirled, their feet stepping along the shellacked floor in time to The Platters. The Snowflake Dance was stopped halfway through as Patricia Johnson and Susan Wilson were welcomed onto the floor, cheeks pink and glowing, in shimmery dresses that reflected diamond shards onto the walls. A few minutes after the two girls had been absorbed by the dancing crowd, two people who hadn’t been seen in two weeks snuck in through a side door and watched the teenagers for a moment, the girls’ bouncing hair, the boys’ wide grins. Then they walked out into the center of the room and joined the dance.

“I can’t believe you made me wear this,” the Doctor said, leaning down to whisper in Clara’s ear because even wearing high heels she was several feet shorter than him.

“I like it,” she said, but couldn’t help giggling as she stroked the sleeve of his powder blue tuxedo.

“It certainly brings back memories,” he said, taking his hand off her shoulder for a moment to straighten his matching bowtie.

She laughed and leaned her head against his chest, smiling contentedly.

They danced like they were the only people in the room, moving in small circles, she guiding him more than the opposite way around.

“I’m glad everything worked out so well,” Clara said into the Doctor’s shirt front, “Patricia and Susan recovered, the bad guy was brought to justice, the new principal’s a woman, and those girls realised how those diet pills do more harm than good and saw for the first time how beautiful they are. I mean, look at them,” she said, raising her head to watch the other dancers, and the Doctor looked too. The girls really did look beautiful, their smiles lighting up their faces, dancing with all their hearts, not caring if they got sweaty because they were happy, their eyes sparkling, faces flushed. The boys seemed in awe of their beauty, as if each one of them were dancing with a goddess. And they were. Every single man in the room was looking at his partner as if they were a goddess. Even men who only appeared human.

“So, you like the 1950’s better now?” The Doctor asked, looking down at Clara and the stars shimmering in her eyes.

“Nope. I need to get my club and hit every sexist guy in this gym right now. Maybe just every guy, just in case.”

They both laughed.

Clara set her head back against the Doctor’s chest and closed her eyes. They were the last to leave the dance floor that night. They danced until dawn streaked the sky the next morning and the balloons began to fall around them like snowflakes, because they had all the time in the world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Alaric Alexander Watts' most famous poem features lines of alliteration for almost every letter of the alphabet. (it's called 'The Siege of Belgrade' if you want to read it)
> 
> I hope you enjoyed this! I really had fun writing it so I hope it shows through in my writing.


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